The next morning, a thin mist still blanketed Willowbrook Village as the soft red light of dawn gently seeped between the simple wooden rooftops. The morning air felt fresh and piercingly cold, mixed with the scent of damp soil after the night dew, wood smoke from newly lit stoves, and the smell of fresh, still-wet grass. Small birds chirped softly in the trees at the edge of the village, while the crowing of roosters and the bleating of goats began to break the calm morning silence.
Sylvia woke earlier than her two sisters. She stood in front of the small wooden house they had rented, her gray merchant robe already neat and unwrinkled. Her long black hair was tied loosely behind her, with only a few strands falling beside her face. Her cold red eyes gazed at the still half-asleep village with a calm, attentive look. The morning air brushed her face, bringing a rare sensation of cold she seldom felt in her life as the Queen of Death.
